Fenced In
by RockinJanelle
Summary: Mycroft asked Lestrade to go to a fencing event he was in. Mystrade. PG-13


**Title: **"Fenced In"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~1,300_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong><br>A/N: Someone on Tumblr asked me to write a fic of Mystrade based around fencing. This was the _best_ I could do, and I'm terrible at fluff/smut (which is why there's no smut involved LOL). **

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

The night before, Lestrade and Mycroft were lounging on the sofa. As they were watching the telly (Mycroft wasn't paying attention; he hated the slow paced shows Lestrade thought were grand) Mycroft sat up and turned to face his partner. Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Don't want to watch it with me?" Mycroft smirked and shook his head.

"While I admire what the writers of the show are intending, I have a proposition for you. It's nothing, really, and it had only crossed my mind," Lestrade muted the TV and stared at him.

"Yeah? What's going on? Everything okay?"

Mycroft smiled. "Don't worry about a thing. If something were wrong, you would—well, maybe you wouldn't know, but far from the point. Actually, I was wondering if you could join me tomorrow at a little event. The branch I am in holds a fencing tournament each year, and tomorrow seems to be the date."

Lestrade blinked. "You're serious," Mycroft tilted his head.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lestrade thought for a moment—Mycroft fenced? He couldn't picture it. He shrugged.

"It hadn't crossed my mind," Mycroft leaned back on Lestrade's chest and frowned.

"It'd only be for a couple hours, hardly keeping you occupied. You needn't go, I know fencing isn't what you call the best sport," well, that was true, Lestrade thought. He hated the sport, really. But, Lestrade softly smiled and kissed the top of his head.

"Sounds like a fine idea. I want to see the best win, after all."

So there they were, at the event. The audience was full of women and children, along with a few men here and there (Lestrade felt out of place). There weren't many in the crowd, but there were numerous fencers coming from every entrance. All had their masks off, and Lestrade didn't know who was who. But then he saw Mycroft come through the door. Needless to say, he hadn't known how amazing white would be on his body.

A quick announcement came (Lestrade was too preoccupied with how Mycroft looked and stood) and then the tournament began. One after another, men were dropping left and right. Lestrade didn't understand the game, but he knew well enough that they were aiming not to be hit by the sword—whatever it was. And it was a best of three shots—if you were hit in the chest three times, you lost (the arms, apparently, were not targets).

Then it was Mycroft's turn. Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off him—there was something about it that made him…aroused. Mycroft stood on one end, the other man opposite. Mycroft pulled his mask over the top of his head—Lestrade saw him take a slightly relaxed stance. A slight wiggle in the hips, a quick movement with the hands (the foil, Lestrade learned from the woman next to him, moving with him), and a slight bend of the knees made Lestrade intrigued.

The other man took his stance, ready to fight. Lestrade probably guessed Mycroft smiling (he would be right) at the man's readiness. A slight announcement overhead, Mycroft situating himself in his stance and—the timer began.

Lestrade grew anxious as neither one moved. They stood on each end, pointing their foils to one another. Then the mystery man started to move, and so did Mycroft. Lestrade noticed how he moved, how graceful and commanding he looked at the same time. Lestrade found him to look strong, moving, powerful—and with each tap of the foil Mycroft had made with his opponent, Lestrade couldn't help but—

Then a buzzer rang out. Mycroft was hit. Lestrade heard the cheers around him and noticed the frustration in his partner. A quick whip of the foil (god, Lestrade was on the edge) made him focus. Another announcement, then it began all over again. This time, Mycroft did not hesitate and charged the man. They stood near each other for a good few seconds, then Mycroft whipped the foil around. With the microphones implanted in the suits, Lestrade could distinctly hear his breath panting, and with each thrust, there was a slight groan.

Another buzzer rang. Mycroft attacked. Lestrade cheered, along with others, but he didn't get up—he didn't want to cause a scene.

Another buzzer had gone, then another. Finally, it was neck and neck, two-and-two. Lestrade's legs were bouncing up and down—he didn't know how much longer he would last. He wanted Mycroft to win, sure, but deep down, something wanted him to lose. A quick announcement, then the final round began. Lestrade leaned forward, watching every move Mycroft made, hearing every breath he would have, every groan he would make. It was enchanting.

Mycroft and the other man met in the middle, exchanging taps. Thrust after thrust, Lestrade intently watched the two go after each other. All the groans that were made, all the sounds coming from Mycroft—it was enough. He needed another buzzer, and he needed it now.

And he got his wish. A strong buzzer sounded the arena. Mycroft hit the man in the arm; the other man hit him square in the chest.

Lestrade wasn't wasting any time; he was finding a way down the bleachers.

Mycroft tore the mask off, placed it under one of his arms, and continued to pant (he hated fencing, but it was good exercise) as he reached out for the other man's hand. They quickly shook, and then parted. As he was bringing his hand to his side, it was quickly taken. He looked over and saw Lestrade moving them in the other direction.

"We have to go," he said. Mycroft was practically running with Lestrade as he was being pulled away.

"Greg, what—" Lestrade fastened his grip on him and turned around. Mycroft looked him in the eyes; oh, he understood.

"We have to go, now," he replied. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and was once again being led away by Lestrade.

**x x x **

Clothes were everywhere; Mycroft's outfit was on the floor, crumpled along with Lestrade's outfit he wore to the arena. The door had been wildly left open, the sheets sprawled everywhere on the bed, and two men panting were lying on said bed. Full of sweat, they were trying to catch their breath.

"Greg, my god," Mycroft let out. Lestrade closed his eyes and rolled off of Mycroft as gently as possible, trying to lay on the bed with him. He only managed to get away for a few inches before resting on his partner's arm. Lestrade hummed a bit, still moaning at what had happened, and Mycroft turned his head to him. "What…"

Before he could let it out, Lestrade kissed him on the lips. One kiss after another, he could hear Lestrade lowly humming, his chest rumbling against his. Lestrade knew it was quite the turn-on for Mycroft.

And when Lestrade pulled apart, Mycroft had a smirk on his face. "Maybe I should partake in fencing more often," he said. Lestrade let out a tiny groan.

"Sounds like a fine idea."


End file.
